


Something We Need To Talk About

by wibblywobblymess



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, a fuck-ton of swearing, and she smacks herself in the face, major body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 22:58:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6927406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wibblywobblymess/pseuds/wibblywobblymess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine having a crush on Dean, but doubting he could be interested in you because you’re overweight and feel like you’re not good enough for him.</p><p>Based on <a href="http://supernaturalimagine.tumblr.com/post/133680061156/my-shotgun-angel">THIS </a>imagine</p><p>-------------</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something We Need To Talk About

**Author's Note:**

>  

The realization that you had a ridiculous crush on Dean Winchester – not the kind where you batted your eyes and puffed out your chest, but the kind where you could imagine dates and cuddling and romance – scared the ever loving shit out of you. Not because he was so gorgeous (he was), not because he was like sin on bow legs (he was), not because he was probably one of the best people you knew (…surprise, he totally was).

It was on you. All on you, that fear of the crush.

Because there was no way, no _way_ , Dean Winchester could ever see you the way you saw him.

He was tall, and fit (yes, you knew he was a bit soft around the middle, but that didn’t make him _less_ fit), and smart, and funny, and just fucking beautiful, despite (or in spite of) everything that had damaged him.

You…were not. You could spend lifetimes staring at yourself in the mirror, and you didn’t think you could come up with a single thing about yourself that anyone would possibly like. You were overweight. Fat. You could barely move up the stairs without feeling like you were going to collapse – even if the staircase was ridiculously short.

Now, you found yourself standing in front of the mirror that hung behind the bathroom door, forcing yourself to just _look_ , praying that this time, unlike every time before, something would stick out as something Dean could possibly like about you.

Stuff stuck out, as always, but just not what you wanted. You couldn’t help the fingers that you jabbed into your rolls ( _love handles_ , you tried to supply as a helpful afterthought, only to be silenced by _it’s not a love handle if no one loves you_ ). God, you tried. You tried constantly to like yourself, to like how you looked, to just be happy with who you were, but those voices, those god damn voices, they were like poison needles in your mind. The moment you grasped something happy, they smothered it to the dust, and you were once again lost in your disdain, unable to meet your own gaze in the mirror.

 

“Y/N? You in there?” Sam’s voice through the door startled you, and you scrambled for your shirt.

“Just a minute!” you called back, yanking your shirt back on and running the sink to splash a little water on your face to hopefully mask the tears you’d felt welling up in your eyes barely seconds before. The look on Sam’s face when you opened the door told you it didn’t work, but you ducked around him before he could say anything. “Sorry…’sall yours,” you told him, moving down the hall to your room.

 

You weren’t always unhappy with yourself. You could go a day or two enjoying things without even sparing a second for the bad thoughts to sneak it. But they never went away. You could always feel them, waiting on the edges of your mind, waiting for the moment to strike and drown you when you were least expecting it.

It was a few days later, when the boys dragged you out for a hunt. A ghost, something simple, something you all loved – which was probably a thought you never imagined having, honestly. It was far enough away that it warranted a motel room, but it didn’t occur to you that you might wind up in your own room, alone with the monsters in your head.

After the salt-and-burn, Dean drove you three to a little dinner down from the motel. “Burgers, Sammy!” he’d laughed as Sam tried to argue for some little veggie food truck he’d seen on the way into town. You had to side with Dean – really, the only time you didn’t mind lettuce or veggies was when they were on something else, like a burger.

That thought latched on as the food was placed on the table, and despite how hungry you had been, the moment you reached for your burger, your hand stopped, and you had to close your eyes against the warm liquid that suddenly formed.

“…Y/N? What’s wrong?” Dean sounded concerned, despite the fact he was speaking around a mouthful of red meat and toasted bun, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look up at him as you lowered your hands, and shook your head.

“…nothing…nothing, I’m just…I’m not as hungry as I thought I was…”

“Your stomach was rumbling literally 5 minutes ago,” Sam pointed out, the frown evident in his voice. The mention of your stomach made you flinch, although you could have punched yourself for it when you realized it, and you sighed, shaking your head.

“I’m just not, let it go,” you said softly, before pushing out of the booth, and moving towards the bathroom.

By the time you came out, all three plates were boxed up, and they were waiting for you at the door, money already on the table. You felt bad, knowing they had stopped enjoying their dinners because you were having a fucking inner crisis, but at that moment, you just wanted to go back to the room, and wrap yourself in the itchy blankets, to avoid thinking about how fucking unlovable you felt. Again.

 

They didn’t say anything on the short drive back, and had no time to say anything one they parked, as you pushed out of the backseat before Dean could even shut Baby off, shutting the door to your room behind you as the engine shut off. You heard the door to their room shut, and you found yourself released the breath you didn’t even realize you’d been holding.

“God, you fucking idiot. Everything was fine, everything was _fine_ , and you had to just start thinking about your fat ass. Stupid train of thought, you _always_ bring shit around to your fucking weight, you can’t just enjoy having dinner with Dean, you can’t enjoy spending time with Dean, you have to ruin it, like you fucking ruin everything else. You have to stop this, you have to fucking stop this, you fucking cow, stop this, he is way too good for you,” you rambled, hands smacking against your own forehead, eyes squeezed shut. The hot tears burned as they leaked through your lashes, falling so fast down your cheeks you almost didn’t feel them.

The sound that escaped your mouth at the knock on your door was probably incredibly embarrassing, but all you could focus on was if the person outside had heard you berating yourself. Your skin burned as you peered through the peephole to see Dean standing on the other side.

“Lemme in, Y/N.” He didn’t sound mad, or irritated, or… _anything_. It took you a moment, a deep breath and a rough palm across your eyes, before you opened the door, and stumbled back as he wedged his way into the room. “You forgot your dinner,” he said, holding up the box, before stuffing it into the little fridge near the window.

“…oh…thanks…” you replied, slowly, hoping he just hadn’t heard you before, that he didn’t hear the tremble in your voice now.

You were never _that_ lucky. He turned around to face you, but said nothing, opting instead to look you over from his place across the room. You shifted, uncomfortable beneath his gaze, before he finally sighed, and looked up at your face.

“Okay. Is this something we’re going to need to talk about?”

“…what?” you asked, brow furrowed.

“You have to know I heard you yelling at yourself. Do we…need to talk about this?” he asked again, as your face reddened.

“…Dean…I…I d-don’t know w-”

“Let me tell you what I know.” You clamped your mouth shut, and closed your eyes, nodding, waiting for the worst to come. “…I know that you’re…not okay. I know something is bothering you every time I see you, but I never know what it is. Eh. Scratch that, I never _knew_ what it _was_. But hearing you, before I could knock? I get it now.” Oh, god, you prayed he wasn’t going to draw this out. “I have never seen you as anything other than beautiful.”

Oh god, you couldn’t breathe.

“I don’t think I’ve enjoyed spending time with anyone as much as I enjoy spending it with you. I mean, come on. You let me bitch about Game of Thrones even if you don’t give a shit about the show. You have never commented on the shit I eat, or the fact that the most exercise I get it running away from the damn monsters. When you started acting weird around me, I thought it was something I’d done.”

“No, Dean, n-“

“Let me finish.” You gulped, eyes still closed. “I couldn’t figure it out, why you all of a sudden would leave the room, would stop whatever it was you were doing, that _we_ were doing, and leave. I tried to believe you, that you never felt well, or you weren’t hungry, or you were tired, but after a while, I knew you were covering. Sam told me he saw you the other day, coming out of the bathroom. Kid’s a lot smarter than me, picks up on things a lot faster. He asked me if I ever noticed you acting weird about food. Obviously, I told him he was crazy, considering you and I had fucking eating races with burgers…but after tonight, I realized, well, shit, Sammy was right. And all that shit started to make sense.”

“Dean…” you begged softly, wishing the ground would open up and just fucking swallow you whole.

“Eh, I’m not done. I get it. Coming to talk to someone when you’re having these major fucking problems is not easy. Shit, I don’t even think it’s anyone’s idea of a good time, to tell their friends they’re having issues. But you? Me? We aren’t friends, Y/N. Okay, no, stop,” he backtracked, at the tremble of your lip. “Obviously we’re friends. But we’re more than that…I thought we were. I _hoped_ we were. After hearing the way you talked about me, yeah, I think that’s something you want, too.”

What? Oh, god, you were sure your heart was going to beat out of your chest.

“Like I said. You’ve always been beautiful to me. I just…it fucking tears me up that you think you’re not good enough for me. Look at you. Seriously, I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. Because, darling, there’s not a damn thing I’d change, except that I would rather you be happy than all broken up. Shit, if anyone isn’t good enough for anyone else, I am certainly not good enough for you. You are _so_ fucking strong, dealing with this shit on your own, and you’re so fucking amazing for still standing here with us…with me. But I’ll take you, anyway you’ll let me. And if I have to tell you every day that I think you’re beautiful, and that I fucking love you? Well, I’ll do it. No questions asked.”

The tears poured down your face, your body trembling as you tried to hold back the sobs, but the moment the first sound passed your lips, his arms were around you, and your face was pressed to his shoulder. God, you could hug Dean Winchester forever.

It wasn’t a fix-all. You knew those nagging little voices that tormented you weren’t going to go away all of a sudden, just because Dean goddamn Winchester _loved you._ But for the first time in ages, you didn’t feel them in the corner, waiting for you to let your guard down. And if you clung a little tighter to Dean than before at the thought, well, no one else had to know.


End file.
